In my shady bedroom, everything that should be on the walls is resting on the floor, waiting. I lugged the can of light for miles from Home Depot, the handle digging into my grip and the hot sun beating down.
It is a necessity which may lead to a total devotion and to a freely accepted self-sacrifice. It may take you some time to be moved, but once you choice is made, it is a lasting one and you are particularly endearing and loyal. Search for:. Your idealism prompts you to give of your best to great causes, and to believe in the virtues of friendship, dedication, and universal love. The only thing I can say is, if you guys are not getting along and you do not see where things are getting better then you may have to move on. Should I leave her and marry someone else or there is a solution. Your natural mobility enables you to constantly adjust and to get the positions you want.
Exhausted from what some might call a small physical task and glad to be home, I had to admit it felt good to choose something and make it happen. After my arduous afternoon, I left for a movie with some of closest friends. It was a movie about women who, in different ways, were invested in their own depletion. We watched a lawyer endure a male client who imposed himself into her car and wept. Things only got worse.
And why would we want to give up the little things we know, when we know so little? Sometimes, the most daunting aspect of change is thinking about it. The one book I kept coming back to, on the chance that I might have read too quickly and missed something, was Brownies by ZZ Packer. I read Brownies for a week, sitting with each story, changing locations and times of day. What stuck with me to this day was the striking final paragraphs where the narrator, a young black girl, began to reckon with systemic racism: the trauma she was to inherit and her relationship to that trauma, her role in it.
When I think about the books that have taught me what identity is and how it shapes us, how it splinters us into painful irreconcilable bits, I realize that the writers have often been Capricorns Woman Hollering Creek and Caramelo by Sandra Cisneros come to mind here. But, know this, somewhere along the path toward reconciliation and dare I say it justice, there are women who are waiting for you to walk with them and clear the way for others.
Today I bring you these letters, a small harvest I collected under the light of your stars. How your Lisa Frank folders and trapper keeper, particular mechanical pencils and three-colored pens, would raise your cool factor and make new friends a breeze. My friend reminded me that in addition to the excitement, there was terror and isolation, fear of being found out for whoever we were then, and inevitably who we wound up being now.
If you would like to contribute to the writing of these horoscopes, you can donate at my PayPal. I remember the state of your guitar particularly. Like, Karen Carpenter wholesome. And I loved her bright clear voice like I loved your guitar, earnestly swinging behind you.
When I saw you last, you were living in a house that might as well have had a white picket fence. You were in love, teaching music, you took me to a small town gay bar and I saw the best drag show of my life. The kind of letter you write to keep a memory intact then tuck into the corner of a musty cabinet.
But, if you are reading this, I want you to know that I remember you powerful. In my mind you are never lost, never unclear of the path you must choose toward feeling strong and free. It was something that embarrassed me but I had excuses: my father was disabled and unable to teach me in that running-behind hands-on way, my brother never offered to, my friends would always stop being my friends etc etc.
It took me a long time to commit to learning, to decide I deserved that particular kind of freedom. The first person who helped me help myself was a dear Pisces friend. For a couple of hours on a cool summer day she ran beside me as I tentatively pedaled her bike back and forth along Flatbush Ave.
Later that year, I found a Kelly green Schwinn abandoned in an old shed behind a college house I was living in. I cleared it of cobwebs and claimed it. This is a letter about the moment when, riding around town with a girl I had been seeing on and off, I glanced behind me and in her face saw a happiness I dared to hold between my two open hands. About trusting yourself to brake when you need to, to take turns well and with grace. The freedom this new venture offers you, you deserve it and you know what to do with it.
Wear a helmet, get on and ride. When a small animal is put in our hands, we are given delicate instructions. We accommodate its wriggling squirm and scramble, shifting our arms this way and that. Fragility is the obvious thing, the small bones and thin skin mewling.
We know a woman can love a suckling pig and bring that pig to slaughter. That is a tenderness too, no matter its conclusion. Where does such tenderness come from? Asks Marina Tsvetsaeva of Mandelstam and his eyelashes although his love for her was hardly tender, often cruel and dismissive. Sometimes, I have encountered women who moved me toward tenderness as if by compulsion—a dull ache in my hand to tuck her loose hair back behind her ear, to smooth the tension from her neck with a light stroke. More rare were the times I felt tender toward myself, stroked myself from collarbone to pelvis like a long worry stone.
Each day you abandon yourself is a day you become less soft and less able to love others. We were there the moment Miriam opened for breakfast, a young woman propping the door with one hand and gesturing us in with the other. What is life and how do we think our way through it? You scanned the menu and I knew what both of us wanted. Well, how does it feel to have returned? So many of your responsibilities, roles you anticipated and waited years for. We are not that kind. We were made to re-imagine to world, the clear a path through it as a hoofed land animal might—moving persistent through tall obscuring grass.
We were bathing in the dim light of morning and warmth of endless coffee re-fills. I said I feel too aware of the world—too aware of the intentions of others—what they mean versus what they say. You said I have always been this way, all my life. And, I knew that was where your strength came from, your ability to push through and onward toward a wide and more ample landscape. I have a funny feeling about moons. And, there I was, naked in a Hampton Bay waiting for bioluminescent transcendence, thwarted by the greedy light of the big full moon.
I thought about how lucky I was to be swimming with my love, my friends and strangers, queers of various ages and races—free under the hooded eye of night. Maybe life is all about chance, a double-sided coin that falls how it may—despite everything we learned about odds and probability. Yes or no, go or stay, this way or that. Whichever power governs our lives, we stand square in the midst of these forces and we are culpable in their outcomes. We are the ones tossing the coin, looking toward the sky for answers and choosing whether or not to listen.
If you are walking through a dark path, let your eyes adjust to the dark. Be patient with yourself and the moon, it will light your way softly for a long time. CANCER A while ago I read an article that encouraged those of us going through heartbreak to lie down on the ground and feel it all, submit to Kali, Hindu goddess of chaos.
Write it down, Cancer, a page of what you mean to surrender. How the man with the gold flag welcomed us into a ramshackle alley and two foreigners looked us over as if we were the experiment? We could have never known, hours before, that we would be perched on stacked pallets getting the veins in our feet traced by their paintbrushes. How quietly we folded into the demands of that universe, how easily we played along—teaching the foreigners a hand clapping game we both knew from childhood.
The folds in our lives are sometimes slight and sometimes so sharp they change the shape of the page entirely. You might be surprised to find that you never needed it the way it was. Your book. You laugh and seem to understand perfectly, tufts of my hair fall on your chest and make you wooly. Hair is an intimacy, I think, my mother saved my long Russian braid from when I was a child.
I would open up her chest looking for costume jewelry or handkerchiefs and come upon my own hair, a golden color it will never be again. When I think about what the stars say I think compromise, suppression, a lasting wound that shapes you. How does one parse themselves from themselves, a bruise on the heart from all other bruises? Yes, we talked about the falsity of tender things and, yes, we know some bruises fade.
But what do the living owe the dead? What do you owe the ghosts of relationships past, the girl you thought you were and the women you discovered you are? On the news all morning the North Dakota Pipeline protestors representing tribes near and far, on horseback and on foot, children and elders chanting go away go away pushing attack dogs back with their big voices. What comes to mind is the summer we drove through the Dakotas.
The fields now flat now undulating, the sky true blue and so wide I felt like we could drive right off the earth. Wheels of golden hay punctuated the landscape and we saw a horse faint from heat. You told me how you dreamed of coming back here, to help kids who might or might not be your relations—teaching them animation skills so they might tell their stories.
Today the protestors are out there again. People on horses and one man is wearing a Russian scarf around his neck for protection against mace. I imagine I am that scarf, glittering, sentinel. I imagine you there too, your strong legs braced, your shoulders squared against menacing oncomers. Then, I imagine you wherever you are in this world, watching this same video, wondering what you can do from where you are. Just make sure the help you give is an offering in response to a need, a need wider than your own.
That was probably how I found you, with your long black hair layered in thick wisps, your always perfect pearlescent nails, the waist band of your Adidas running pants flush against your narrow hips. New York is a small town, all of it. That butterfly is always open to the world, she is young-hearted and easy to love. A poet I admire, a Scorpio skilled at seeing, recently complained that in her Myers-Briggs profile, she had morphed from J to P, judging to perceiving. She asserted that the P made her vulnerable in her empathy.
When a Scorpio is young in their spirit, they are said to be scorpions—stingers—moved by instinct. The truth of the scorpion is a truth that pours from fear means to wound others. When a Scorpio begins to walk their path with mindfulness, they are said to be eagles. They are interested in self-awareness and precision. These are the Scorpios that hold their truth for a long time before burning one large and final bridge.
The third Scorpio is said to be a phoenix. This is Scorpio that lays its judgment down in favor of perception. It does not mean to tell you how you are; rather, it means to see you for who you are. This is the Scorpio that knows how care for someone by caring for their damn self, how to love someone even as they let them go. Scorpio, because fall is coming and that is kind of walking towards death—not mortal but seasonal, spiritual—I want you to think about the kind of Scorpio you are.
What has your commitment to judgments about yourself, about your life, even your workspace held you back from? Maybe freedom begins by learning to see the many complicated truths you are capable of. The bed I sleep in has ropes for slats. My friend informs me that these ropes have never been replaced and I go to sleep thinking about how long a good rope can last.
I did not come to test ropes or stroke Sycamores, I came because of a donkey named Romeo. At the pasture where Romeo grazes, I behold a Bay horse. What I want is to be close. Neither animal is afraid but the more we touch them the more they seem to recognize us. The horse knows our nature now, he nudges my friend to fetch him grass, he wants to be stroked along his back.
The horse makes me think of you, how there are times when you appear reserved by nature. Or, how you reserve yourself, afraid to give away your softness lest it makes you soft indefinitely—vulnerable and bad at lying. Like the horse, you project a kind of wall but lean softly towards a hand with sweet offerings. Imagine what life would be like, Sagittarius, if for a while you trusted the universe to protect you and you let your reserve down. What if, for while, it was you who made the offerings? Someone begins to wonder about power and fear, how each relates and where they diverge.
Who am I without you? Asks each from the other. A Hegelian puzzle: who is powerful without having power over? Who is weak? There is book of the collected writings and statements of Louise Bourgeois lying on the table and so I pick it up and let it fall where it may. A statement she made about spirals strikes me and I read out loud:. The spiral is an attempt at controlling the chaos. It has two directions. Where do you place yourself, at the periphery or at the vortex? Beginning at the outside is the fear of losing control; the winding in is a tightening, a retreating, a compacting to the point of disappearance.
Beginning at the centre is affirmation, the move outward is a representation of giving, and giving up control: of trust, positive energy, of life itself. Although these words attend to power, they are not interested in what power does to us. Rather, they want to know how you place yourself in relation to control, seeking or surrendering.
I want to know how you place yourself at all, Capricorn, in this moment, which is a spiral like any other. Anyway, I love you. The Moon loves you. Guard your secrets and polish your ambitions. Today is July 19 th and there is a full moon in Capricorn. My father was already disabled when we came to America. He had a vulnerable heart and spent most of his time being my caregiver, organizing the apartment, and hiding needful things in useful places where we never found them again. He spent a lot of time alone in this country and when he died, his death was just like his life here—neglected by doctors, numerical, shrouded in a language he never understood.
When I think about my place in this country, as a refugee turned citizen, as a Jew fleeing violence and a girl too gay to ever go back, I wonder what it feels like to belong anywhere and at what cost? Citizenship is dissociation, the art of forgetting: to belong in America is to forget America. What wars has this country waged for its citizens and against them?
We fill our tanks, we pay our taxes. Who walks blithely over the graves black and brown bodies make—men and women both, named and unnamed? This toxic whiteness—which is not new but is also not inevitable—is a pollution we accept, build houses on, grow food in, swim. It is a thriving not in spite of death but because of it. That, too, is a mythology our money has made real.
I spend my days unraveling, following a thread of violence and suppression that only has to whisper its presence in order to expel power over me and who I believe I am meant to be in this world. And what about you, reader? What have you agreed to so that you might feel this free? You can support the writing of these astro-loveletters at my paypal site OR. In New York City, we organize local grassroots campaigns to fight police harassment and violence and increased access to safe public space for LGBTQ youth.
I needed an ideology that would define his behavior in context. The black movement had given me an ideology that helped explain his colorism he did fall in love with my mother partly because she was so light; he never denied it. Feminism helped explain his sexism. I was relieved to know his sexist behavior was not something uniquely his own, but rather an imitation of the behavior of the society around us. All partisan movements add to the fullness of our understanding of society as a whole.
They never detract; or, in any case, one must not allow them to do so. Experience adds to experience. Our books only teach us so much. And countries too, with their invented histories, their every-day pleasures and heaps of garbage, what can they tell you about your purpose in this world? Your reflection glimmers beautiful in shop windows and is gone.
I want to believe, given all this war and death and violent denial, that this summer has been easy for no one. Still, time presses down on us with her thumb and demands work, demands we eat, demands we smile when someone takes a picture of us standing under a waterfall. And you must go to the waterfall, Aquarius, no matter how broken the world.
You must go to the waterfall and watch the cataract beat down on the rocks at its foot, watch the water shape them. In what other types of suffering is beauty born? And when is beauty a seed? And when is beauty a burden? You run the hot water over the dishes in the sink, of which there are many. They are evidence of a beautiful morning, a morning making food for a lover or a friend or your kid—who is coloring now in the other room and really only sometimes on the table instead of the paper—which is to say, evidence of your life.
There is soap too, in this water, breaking down grease from butter and meat and from meals before this meal. Small tasks adding up to a daily life, which is not removed, which has today to worry about and tend to. You tend to it. You pluck each dish from the hot basin and think about gloves, about needing some. You can do this. You can clean each separate thing, sometimes gently and sometimes with your elbow deep in it. This work is an offering, a gratitude, a time to think about the rest of the day and the many meals that follow this one.
Not all of them will be beautiful but each one will be a choice you have made in response to some kind of hunger. Once, life was a different room everyday. You walked in and walked out, you were always changing but nothing felt changed. These days, you walk into the same room and it is the room of yourself. In this room, you let the right ones in and you know you are strong to care and be cared for, both. In this room, you do the work, you get dirty and you come clean.
For the past few weeks your generosity has drained you. In order to care for those who depend on you, you split your world into two: creator and nurturer. Aries, you maker of new possibilities, rest up and let your collective visions return to you. Imagine a life where the nurturer in you has boundaries that rise up out of love and never out of fear, where the creator in you makes art that is a reason to live in this world.
In another world we are walking shoulder to shoulder through an exhibit called Twice Militant. We want to honor her brilliance of course, to scan her ingenious arguments for the liberation of women, black and gay in particular, her commitment to being exceptional and her suffering from it. Her suffering feels very present in the room the way genius can change the air when it is made visible. What holds onto us, what always holds, are the secret things. The lists she wrote privately, her likes and dislikes, her contradictions and her clear river of want:.
I regret That love is really as elusive as everybody over 30 knows it to be …. The shallowness of the people who have come into and lately been expelled from my life. I like 69 when it really works The first scotch The fact that I almost never want the third or even the second when I am alone. Praise fate! I am proud that I am losing some of those fears that I struggle to work hard against many, many things and on my own of my people.
Use the morning for any important dealings that you have. Use caution when handling finances and making plans. With much activity going on around you, you. Create more of what you want and you will succeed. Friends will back you with a special project that you cannot say no to. Investigate new possibilities with an.
I should like … to be utterly, utterly in love to work and finish something. Taurus, as this month comes to a close and the full moon rises thick with strong will, I want to imagine you writing a list. You can start with the easy things—a job that fulfills your strong spirit, when you have enough money to make time with friends luxurious.
These things are easy because you know the limits of the material world. Now go deeper. To work and finish something. Fort Tryon Park? She says soft serve AND hot dogs, house margaritas and a whole pizza pie. We might have our own concerns but none of them apply. Yes bring it all over. A kind of being there for each other—the witnessing of daily tasks: bringing bags in from the rain, fumbling for the dropped screw through the under-bed dust bunnies, the sticky margaritas that splash up everywhere.
Dear Gemini, if the words that fill you now seem impossible to say, it is ok to make what you mean. This is about ritual and intention. About having a clean heart. An offering is made for the pleasure of giving, the lightness of it. I see you , your Gemini gift might say, you are so important to me—this is a symbol of my gratitude. Who knew Bon Jovi could conjure up such feminisms? Last week, I found you in the East Village and we took turns people watching.
At our final destination, Tompkins Square Park, we watched a six-person cover band sing American hits. Everyone danced in their own way: one women swayed her arms up from her fold-out chair while her husband thrashed around a few feet away, a young man walked the periphery pumping his limbs in rhythm to the beat.
We were talking about loss and heartache, about when what we love holds us back and when it helps us grow. We were also talking about people, the people dancing, the people we love, the people walking by with dogs that looked exactly like them. Even though it looks entirely different than how it once did, I know I grew up in that park.
When we were young, we felt large in the world and everything was ours. Now we are smaller and so we lose things: our old self-beliefs, the futures we thought we wanted, the parents we imagined we could have. I knew I had no business there, in that stark white basement room full of bodies wringing hands and tapping feet.
I went anyway.
I went every week on a Thursday evening for a month until, faithfully, I was bestowed a day chip, a coin with the number 1 on one side and the words One Day At A Time on the other. And yes, there was alcoholism in my family, plenty stories of the man my father had been and who my brother was becoming. I was just chasing a dead relationship in a foreign city and I needed ways to nurse my sense of self-worth. This month, I encourage you to think about what sobriety means to you. Even if you are wandering home drunk, even if the soft rattle of Klonopin in your tote bag brings you a sense of safety.
I know you might be out there doing the hard work of fighting for your life. I understand that you might be nursing a soda at the bar, leaving parties early because the smell of pot is bringing up waves of nausea. But, Leo, your commitment to yourself—to knowing your own limits—is more than what substances you consume.
It permeates our being, this suffering racist world, whether or not we know it. I think feeling out of place can make you feel crazy. I think buying dozens of self-help books you never finish can make you feel crazy, especially if your idea of self-help is unraveling the minds of great philosophers. I think that folding your whole self into the life of someone else, whether it is because you are afraid to lose them or afraid to find yourself, can make you crazy.
If this month of late night bacchanals and badly timed commitments has left you feeling alienated, outside of some greater picture, outside of yourself and what means most to you—I understand. Virgo, returning to yourself is a work that is never over. We fuck up, we start again, we find reasons to be better versions of ourselves that are beyond us—whether it be the work we have left to do, the people sometimes very small who look up to us, or all the lives that have conspired to bring us to this very troubled moment.
For a long time, it all seemed sort of cut and dry: some people are passionate people and some are not; passion exists in some nebulous part of our psyches, evoked from us if the flute plays just the right song. O if it were so then make it so, sister. If you want to pray to the goddess of passion on your own terms, to light a large votive candle, look no further than the face and Amazonian everything of Serena Williams.
Libra-extraordinaire, Serena is asked to prove to the world over and over that she is worth adoration. It must be daunting to work so hard, to give up your life, to know that your own country will cheer for a stranger before it cheers for you. Watch this woman, only in her thirties, this world a trembling passionate muscle in her arms:. Passion, you have it, more than enough—even on the days when you feel weak and small in the world. Make something. Focus on the way small wins lead to the big ones.
Focus on Serena, or any Amazon who raises her racket and never backs down. Once, in rags and mesh, you were two girls belonging to no one. The East Village community gardens were just as much yours as the open sky raining. Each night, when you ran away from your family, you ran to her little storefront teeming with roaches and radical road shows—women and books and guitars and lost cats. You were seventeen, queer, and unafraid to die. She read your tarot card under a tin tile ceiling painting dry-blood-red.
Whatever you believe in—it believes in you. However empty your pockets, your cup overflows. Bring the cup to your lips, Scorpio. This month, make a contract with the universe. Honor it everyday and in your best interest. It was so good all of it, the butch bravado, the playful puppy-dog narcissism. We were both Sagittariuses and had enjoyed standing outside the library at night, smoking cigarettes and talking about sex.
We laughed a lot. Like right now. I guess we cry a lot too. I feel it. What does it mean to be self-made and how to go about the business of un-making oneself? There are pop cultural narratives of course: the overnight success, rags-to-riches, the lonely girl who got herself out of a nothing town and into the arms of a big city stud. There are narrower interpretations as well, the mural artist discovered on the street, the YouTube singer gone viral, how one perfectly crafted Tindr profile got someone their life partner. These stories serve to fill our imaginations with limits, to keep us wanting the same thing—so that we might never question what is underneath all this wanting.
Narratives of fabricated lives, of blind luck, tell us nothing about the day-to-day work of loving one another and ourselves. Well, what if our dreams are deeply rooted in one another? There will always be two sides to our lives and maybe more, maybe many more : the side that is illuminated and the underside the floats us down this river. Capricorn, have you dealt with the underside? Seek counsel, journal your nightmares, take a swimming class. Stars are dying and we are their ashes.
Today is the first day that I will not mourn at a public vigil. S Senate floor at the same time. I was on my knees beneath a print of the American flag in a small gallery near Brandeis. She was talking about the ecstasy of being gay and angry and I was crying. I was crying because that was the summer when my love for you reached a fever pitch, because Sade was singing so be gentle and be kind and you were fucking me with a non-metaphorical peach, the pit slippery and hard. There is no prison in any world into which love cannot force an entrance, said Sharon. When will love force an entrance into America?
I want everything back and none of it. Brown women are disappearing in frightening numbers here and across all our borders. Last year 23 Transwomen were reported murdered and 12 more this year and we know it to be more than that and counting and counting. She would want to remember a moment when she was proud of me. Claire says all angels are genderless.
All angels are queer. Queer angels, is there a dance floor where you are? I want to love you more in the face of this. To kiss wildly and fuck all! It matters who you are, love. When they run out of guns they will use their hands. When they run out of guns they will have brutal imaginations. Laws can control guns but who will control them? I need to speak to you my love, of your life and of mine. Of our past and our future. Of sweet things that have turned to bitterness and bitter things that could still be turned to joy.
Stars die everyday to become part of us. Consider Sending money to those grieving the shooting and the lives lost in the Orlando Massacre. Black, Latinx and Puerto Rican families are often deeply underserved by government agencies in times of crisis, especially when some of these families are undocumented. Secret Heart, what are you made of? What are you so afraid of?
Could it be that you feel yourself on the great big wheel? But the wheel is threatening too, how does one move forward in a loop? The wheel we imagine is not the one we live in. In each new city, new pathway, new lover, new loss, there is a familiar suffering and a familiar joy. The lessons might stay the same but you do not and that is a good thing, Aquarius. Honor your moments at the top, however brief, and bear witness to your time at the bottom. They both fuel what makes you, you who are everyday becoming. I scroll the images that are slowly rising up off the internet: my friends in elegant outfits, my dapper girlfriend and her beautiful wife.
Then, all I can see is your name. You can sit in the booth with me. What god did you conspire with so that you could prove me wrong? This is the way our friendship works: we find each other and we let each other go. At first, this might have felt like a kind of heartbreak. The universe made you soft and glimmering, reflective. The universe brought you lovers who peered at themselves through you; they were slivers of light coming together or light breaking apart. Shadow play, you were good at complicating an image.
You were good at slipping through the hands. Pisces, the little string that tied me to you, I know how it stays unbroken. You tend to it in your own way—from a distance and with no expectation. Love is divine only and difficult always. If you think it is easy you are a fool. If you think it is natural you are blind. It is a learned application without reason or motive except that it is God. You do not deserve love regardless of the suffering you have endured. It represents how the world views us and how we present to the world through our chosen careers.
But the tenth house is not just about career and occupation, for it also encompasses how we occpy our time. Listen as astrologers Chris Flisher and Debra Clement discuss this important sector of the horoscope. The seventh house is where we find ourresponse to relationships with others.
Romantic partners, close friends, and lovers are revealed in our individual astrology profiles. Listen as astrologers, Debra Clement and Chris Flisher discuss this hot topic. The fourth hose is one of the most important houses in astrology.
It is our core of family, security, and maternity. Listen as Chris Flisher and Debra Clement discuss this foundational area of our existence. Join Chris Flisher and Debra Clement as they dive into a discussion about the house that's all about you! Come back anytime! Today you could accomplish yet another goal, which adds to your feeling of accomplishment. As a result, you might find yourself planning a vacation, or perhaps a return to college.
The expansion of your horizons has not left you complacent. Instead, you want to continue expanding. This is a very positive development. Go for it! Who is your ideal partner? Our advisors have the answer for you!